A Hard Day's Night
by CrisC
Summary: As the consequence of losing a bet, Rogue Squadron pilot Wes Janson must take the night shift at a lonely security post. He expected a boring evening...
1. Part 1

_This story began as a silly little serial story to entertain a friend while she was travelling for business. Over the course of its life, it was put aside, remembered and forgotten again, surprised the author several times with its twists and turns, and finally came into its own. I've enjoyed this one; I hope you do too._

_Apologies to the Beatles for borrowing their title; at first it was simply handy, and then it stuck. Please consider it an homage!_

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**A Hard Day's Night**

**Part 1 **

Wes pushed his unruly hair back off his forehead, let out a gusty sigh, and moped. _What was I thinking?_ he berated himself. _Why did I ever take Sharps up on such a sucker bet as that?_

The gloomy major knew why, of course. He also knew it could have been a lot worse. The Rogues were between assignments at the moment, in the middle of a transfer from one carrier group to another. The cruiser they had been stationed on, the Mon Kalandra, had returned to Coruscant for refitting and resupply. The ship they were transferring to, however, was not yet ready for their arrival. Several squadrons were being shuffled on and off, and for the time being all berths were full. Which meant the Rogues had a couple of easy weeks at Sivantlie Base on Coruscant. Wedge was taking advantage of the opportunity to put the squadron back in real fighting trim, having the base techs and mechanics go over everything with a fine-toothed comb, while the Rogues flew a few easy patrols and enjoyed some downtime while they could.

Wes didn't have a lot of acquaintances among the permanent ground-based staff at Sivantlie, but one of them was an old friend from Rebellion days. Major Eran "Sharps" Rivlantaar had been one of the best procurement officers the Rogues had ever worked with. His career stretched back to the lean days of Hoth and Derra IV, when the tired and harried Rebels had scrounged for every bolt and blaster charge and roll of space tape they could get their hands on. Eran's nickname, Sharps, was well earned. He was sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and sharp-dealing with the shady characters the Rebels had depended on in order to fill the gaps in their supply chain. He was even sharp at shooting, Wes thought with a rueful grin. Sharps' skill with a blaster had once rivaled his own, he would readily admit. But Wes _had_ thought that he was just a little bit better.

He and the other old hands from the squadron had been delighted to run across Sharps again, now permanently stationed at Sivantlie as part of their Logistics staff. They had all gone out to have a few rounds and reminisce about old times, and somehow the topic of marksmanship had come up. Wes had ingested a dangerous number of drinks -- enough to impair his hand-eye coordination, but not to make him drunk enough to recognize he was not at his best. On the contrary, it seemed to have been _just_ enough to convince him that there was no way a planet-based, non-combat data-hustler could possibly beat him in a shooting match.

Hah.

Wes sighed again, then had to chuckle at himself. Sharps had kept up his skill with a blaster, and Wes had been soundly defeated (though he had still hit 7 out of 10 targets dead-center, his wounded pride piped up to remind him). As a result, he found himself sitting at a tiny desk in a shabby security booth on the unglamorous back side of the base, many levels down from the hangars and ready-rooms where pilots normally prowled. This was the real working side of the complex, where all of the most basic, vital activities went on: where foodstuffs and supplies came in, where garbage went out, where all of the behind-the-scenes things that made his own work possible found their source. And for tonight, he was solidly in the middle of it.

As the consequence for losing his bet, Sharps had arranged for Wes to take an overnight shift at one of the base personnel entrances. It was, Wes considered, one of the dullest jobs imaginable on the entire planet -- which was, he was sure, why Sharps had picked it. There was more activity at the loading docks, as the flow of supplies into the huge facility continued around the clock, but there were very few people entering and leaving from this remote little door, far away from all crew quarters, opening into an industrial sector of the city that had seen better days. Usually this post would be covered by a very junior officer, a lieutenant or captain at most. But tonight, the dashing and handsome (his wounded pride was working overtime now) Major Wes Janson was on call, waiting to check ID's of any staff that somehow wandered their way back to this forlorn little hole-in-the-wall on the ugly rear end of Sivantlie Base.

Wes propped his feet on the desk, tucked both hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. It was going to be a long night.

_Continued in Part 2..._


	2. Part 2

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 2**

_Okay, there's got to be something around here to do_, Wes thought to himself. _There's always some poor sap left out here all alone; the regular guards must have something to keep themselves from going space-crazy._ He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and started digging. The inset terminal had been his first try, but it was extremely limited in capacity. It wouldn't let him get to any higher network functions, like flight simulations or combat drill programs. His minimal slicing skills had proved ineffective. All he had were several diagrams of the base layout and a directory of comm codes for watch officers of various sections, everything to do with procurement, security, logistics, and maintenance. He wasn't sure what all of them did, but most of them sounded dull as dirt.

Rooting a little deeper through the messy drawer, he found a battered deck of sabaac cards and a few datacards. Pulling them out, he looked the first datacard over curiously and slapped it into the terminal. To his delight, up popped a primitive flight simulation program, what appeared to be some sort of game for adolescents. He quickly mastered the crude controls and started blasting away at oddly shaped starfighters, ungainly things that lumbered through the reaches of computerized space more clumsily than any malfunctioning TIE bomber he'd ever seen.

Twenty minutes later, Wes whooshed through the final level, thoroughly bored. He traded the datacard for the next on the stack. This one appeared to be a first-person combat simulation of some type, his "soldier" slogging through a swampy forest while odd creatures the size of Wookiees loomed out of the trees. He had worse luck with this one, struggling with the awkward controls of his weapon, an enormous blaster pistol that would take two hands just to pick up in real life. His aim was chronically off, a huge annoyance to one for whom shooting something was seldom more difficult than pointing a blaster and pulling the trigger.

Wes yanked the datacard out of the machine and tossed the whole lot of them back into the drawer. Muttering to himself, he picked up the sabaac deck and started fiddling. If there had been another guard on duty, they could play a game, but no such luck. Pulling the top two cards off the deck, he leaned them against each other on the surface of the desk. Two more cards were set against those, then two more, then one on the top to complete a tiny card tower.

Wes looked at his construction in mild surprise. _That wasn't so hard,_ he thought. Picking up the next two cards, he carefully lowered them onto the top of the first stack... which promptly collapsed.

"Arrgh," he said out loud. Pushing the scattered cards back together, he picked up the first two again, leaning them against each other, then the next, then the next... and the whole thing fell down. "Sithspawn!" Once again, two cards, then two, then... nope, collapsed. Two more cards, then two, then two...

_Continued in Part 3..._


	3. Part 3

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 3**

"What in space are you doing?"

Wes jumped, sending cards scattering across the desk once again. He'd successfully completed _two_ levels of his tower, after nearly an hour of practice, and was just positioning the first cards for a third level. Now he was back at the beginning, cards flopped haphazardly in a pile. He glared up from his seat behind the desk. "What are _you_ doing down here? Don't you have someone else to harass?"

Hobbie grinned down at him. "Not actually, no. And we're going to Starlees, but wanted to say hi to our favorite doorman first, since we just happened to be passing by." Corran, Gavin, and Inyri all snickered.

Wes scowled. Starlees was a small cantina favored by pilots, located on the far side of the base and several blocks away. His post was not "on the way" there; it wasn't on the way to anywhere. "Ha, ha. So here I am. Glad I could entertain you, please leave tips in the jar and have a nice evening. Now get lost." He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and scowled.

"Now, Janson, is that any way to treat your squadmates?" Inyri tsked, shaking her head. "And here I brought the latest copy of 'Hot Swoops' datazine to keep you company." She waved a datacard in front of his nose, snatching it away just before he could grab it. Inyri tucked the card away in an inner pocket of her nerf-hide flight jacket.

"Awwww, Inyri, come on. Have mercy on a doomed man." Wes pulled his cheery features as close to a mournful, pity-me frown as he could. "I'm gonna die of boredom down here. The cleaning droids will be dragging me out by the heels before morning."

"Sorry, pal. Missed your chance." Inyri hmphed, tossed her hair, and smirked.

Wes resumed his scowl. "All right, never mind. You've had your fun, so get out of here. Kid, you can have my share of the drinks."

Gavin tossed a cheerful salute as he headed for the door. "Will do."

"Ha! Not so fast there, junior, or we'll be dragging _you_ back by the heels," Corran laughed as he and Inyri followed. Hobbie hesitated for a moment.

"Thought you might want these," he said, slipping a small stack of datacards across the desk.

Wes quickly flipped through them -- a couple of good tactical and strategy sims, one moderately good flight sim, and... another copy of Hot Swoops. He sighed happily. "You're a life-saver. I changed my mind, you can have my share."

Hobbie grinned again, pulled a half-cred out of his pocket and tossed it at the desk. "And there's your tip."

The coin bounced once and Wes reflexively snatched it out of the air, then glowered. "Suck lasers, Hutt-face."

"And good evening to you, too," Hobbie replied, swinging a mocking half-bow as he backed toward the door. It swept closed behind him, and Wes was left alone again.

_Continued in Part 4..._


	4. Part 4

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 4**

Leaning back in his chair, Wes shuffled through the datacards left by his benevolent wingman. The sims weren't top-notch, but were at least better than the nerf-droppings in the desk drawer. He'd save them for later, though, they would be more help in keeping him awake through the long early hours of the morning.

Wes picked out the issue of "Hot Swoops" datazine and slid it into the terminal. This 'zine specialized in photos and specs of the most gorgeously tricked-out swoops and speeders in the galaxy, usually decorated by equally gorgeous females of various species who appeared alongside them. Or sitting on them, or lounging against them, or... whoa. Wes's eyes widened. _I didn't think that was possible for a human anatomy... I wonder if that's her swoop? It certainly seems to fit her well -- in more ways than one._ Wes grinned to himself. _I wonder if she could do that riding double? Would be fun to find out..._

Absorbed in paging through the screens of hot rides and hotter women, Wes missed the quiet sound of someone clearing their throat beside his desk, and then doing it again. The third time, it was followed by a voice as dry and unyielding as the deserts of Tatooine. "Enjoying yourself, Major?"

Wes jumped and spun around. Beside his security desk stood a short, thin, middle-aged colonel wearing insignia of the base security detail, his face set in an expression of implacable displeasure. Wes scrambled to his feet and stood at attention. "Er, yes sir. I mean --"

"Save it, Major ... Janson, is it?" the colonel replied, stern eyes glancing over his rank and insignia, the wings that designated his pilot's commission, and the array of badges for honors accorded and campaigns fought.

"Yessir."

"Of Rogue Squadron. Finding yourself rather lower in station tonight than you are accustomed to, are you not?" The colonel looked up at Wes from a full five centimeters' difference in height, but his proud eyes spoke of a vast, offended dignity, carried easily across slim shoulders, back as straight and stiff as if plasteel had been grafted to his spine.

"Yessir, I am."

The colonel reached out a hand, palm-up. "The datacard, please."

Wes inwardly groaned, but there was no way out of it. He ejected the card from the terminal and reluctantly laid it in the colonel's palm. The colonel himself unbent so far as to lean over and scoop the rest of the datacards from the desk. "Officers on punishment detail ought to know better than to compound their offenses by bringing unauthorized material on duty. You are not here to work on your targeting skills or to view lurid holographs of shameless women," he commented critically, glancing at each card quickly before deftly stacking them together and sliding them into a pocket.

"Oh, I'm not here on punishment detail, sir," Wes blurted out, his mouth as usual two steps ahead of his brain.

The colonel raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. Then why were you assigned here, _pilot?_" An emphasis on the final word stressed the oddity of Wes's situation.

"Ahhhhh... er, well..."

"I'm waiting, Major." Wes hadn't thought it was possible for the security officer to look more scornful _or_ impatient, but somehow he managed both.

"Ummmmm... I lost a bet, sir. The consequence is that I had to take this assignment."

The colonel stared at him in silence for several seconds. "I see. Well, it is true I've never known pilots to be credited with great common sense, though I am not sure which demonstrates the greater idiocy, getting yourself into such a position, or admitting to it voluntarily. Your duty for tonight, Major Janson, is to watch that door, and that is what you will do. That is _all_ you will do. If I am unsatisfied with the manner in which you fulfill this duty, you will be back for another chance, and possibly several more, until you get it right. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, I understand very well." Wes swallowed his frustration and offended pride at the man's imperious manner, knowing any sign of it would only get him in bigger trouble.

"Good. Carry on. I _will_ be back periodically, and if you are not alert at your post, I promise you will not appreciate the consequences." The colonel turned and, with a surprising grace, marched off down the long corridor back into the base.

Wes continued to stand at attention, just in case the stuffy officer turned around for any parting shot. After he had disappeared and the sound of his firm footsteps had faded, Wes slumped, cursed, and collapsed back into his uncomfortable chair. Now it was _really_ going to be a long night.

_Continued in Part 5..._


	5. Part 5

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 5**

Wes paced again across the small lobby he was tasked to guard. The grouchy colonel had departed nearly an hour ago, and the chastened (but unrepentant) major had been starting to nod off with nothing to focus his mind on. So he had taken to walking up and down his tiny domain, all of eight steps across and back again. He had considered opening the outer door for some fresh air and a change in scenery, but with his luck a commando team would choose just that minute to use his post as their entry point to the base, and the colonel would probably stick him on duty here for a year in consequence. "'Until I learn to do it right,'" Wes grumbled to himself, imitating the colonel's too-proper voice and inflection.

The bored pilot paused in the middle of the lobby and stretched, looking up the hallway that led into the rest of the base. The hall was slightly narrower than the security lobby, but very long, surprisingly so until one studied a diagram of that level (which Wes had done about half an hour ago, out of desperation). Several loading docks were located on the same level, leading into a section of warehouses for base supplies. The warehouses all backed onto the same major corridor, running parallel with the outer wall of the building; the hallway leading to Wes's door ended on that same corridor. Several doors on the right side of the hall led into the neighboring warehouse, all of them security-locked against improper access. He had tried the closest one, but his ID wouldn't let him inside.

Plopping back down in his chair, Wes sipped at the large cup of caf he had thankfully thought to fetch before coming on duty. At least the Imperial-wannabe colonel hadn't taken it away too, he groused to himself. Setting down the cup, he stared at the desk, at a loss. The chrono beside the terminal monitor said it was just past midnight; he was on duty until 0600. _I wonder if any of the Rogues will stop again on the way back?_ he thought forlornly. _Maybe I can offer to shine their dress boots or run their next maintenance checks if they'll stick around for some sabaac?_ He briefly considered comming his astromech to smuggle him a datapad loaded with something entertaining from his personal files, but quickly gave it up. Even if the droid was allowed to descend to this level, the stubborn little thing would probably refuse. It enjoyed his occasional misadventures almost as much as his fellow pilots.

Wes shot upright as a tone sounded from the door. _Someone actually wants in at this Force-forsaken spot?_ Quickly turning to the monitor displaying an outside view, he saw a frustrated-looking Quarren dressed in a nondescript set of overalls, impatiently slapping a hefty datapad against his palm. _Huh?_ He keyed the outside speaker. "Please state your name and business."

"Aruul Navik, from Qawati's Cafeteria Supplies, with a delivery. Open the door already, will you?"

Wes mentally upgraded 'frustrated Quarren' to 'very frustrated Quarren.' "This isn't a loading bay, you're at the wrong door. Try the next one down."

"No, this is where I'm supposed to be. I've got the order right here." The Quarren brandished the datapad at the door as if threatening to knock it open by force.

Wes considered for a moment. He was sure that the delivery person was not actually in the right place, but he was at least warm and breathing. Perhaps Wes could just step outside and direct him to the right place in person instead of talking at him through the door speakers? It would be more polite, wouldn't it? Of course it would. Okay, so perhaps it was a _slight_ break in security protocol, but it would be good PR for the New Republic military. Right? Right. Having talked himself into it, Wes pressed the button to unlock the door, then walked across the room as it hissed upward.

Aruul Navik immediately turned and gestured to someone behind him. Wes took in the large delivery hovertruck sitting outside, two droids maneuvering behind it as its large rear door slowly folded upwards. "We're behind schedule, get those crates moving," the Quarren called overbearingly.

"Whoa, hang on a second. Let me see that delivery order," Wes demanded, holding out his hand for the datapad.

Aruul Navik arrogantly stuck it back in his pocket. "I lied," he declared. "We were supposed to unload at Dock Gamma-23, but they've got ten trucks in line already. I'm not sitting around all night waiting for them to get to my load. We're dumping here."

"What? I don't think so, this isn't a loading bay. What about Gamma-21, maybe they can take --"

"They've got the overflow from 23 already. And 19 has the overflow from 21. You people should put someone competent in charge of scheduling deliveries," Navik said condescendingly. "I could do a better job myself."

"Yeah, so why don't you tell it to someone who cares," Wes muttered under his breath. "I'm sorry, but you can't unload -- hey, wait a minute! Get that stuff out of there!" Wes ran to stop the burly utility droid that was pushing a loaded hover-pallet into the lobby. The droid ignored him, setting its load down in a corner opposite his desk. Right behind it came the second droid Wes had seen, and then a third. With three pallets, the lobby suddenly felt a lot smaller.

Wes took a deep breath, trying to hold on to his unraveling temper. "Mr. Navik, I'm sorry, but you've got to get these things out of here. The loading docks will be free soon, I'm sure. In the meantime, you'll just have to wait like everyone else."

Navik ignored him, waving a fourth droid forward as the first trundled back onto the transport for the next load. The latest droid set its pallet down in the last available bit of space against the lobby's far wall, leaving a path through the middle of the room clear. Wes strode back outside, grabbing the taller Quarren by the shoulder. Navik shrugged him off, addressing the next droid maneuvering towards the door. "P-5, you'd better take that the whole way down to the end or there won't be room."

"Oh no you won't... Oh, no. No, no, no," Wes said, his eyes growing wide as he caught sight of the lineup outside the door. Behind the large truck being unloaded by Navik's relentless droids, sat another seven just like it.

_Continued in Part 6..._


	6. Part 6

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 6**

Biting back a curse, Wes dodged around the crate-laden droid and ran back to his desk. Skidding into his seat, he slapped at an override button and the security door slammed down, locking Navik and his droids out. The besieged pilot slumped in his chair for a second, running both hands back through his hair. At least now he had a little breathing room to figure out what to do with his roomful of loaded boxes.

The tone from the door started chiming insistently. Wes looked at his monitor, seeing Navik punching the call button over and over. He keyed the outside comm, which was immediately flooded by a stream of abuse. "... defiled son of an uu'thlu, if you don't open this door immediately I will --" Wes shut off the channel again. Bringing up the directory, he furiously scanned for the watch officer in charge of the loading docks and punched in his comm code.

A brusque voice answered his summons. "Major Frantloo here. Please make it fast, we're very busy."

"Major Frantloo, this is Major Janson at security door Gamma-8. I've got an insane Quarren here trying to stuff my bay full of boxes. Can you help?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the comm. "Could you repeat that?" the voice finally asked, carefully.

Wes closed his eyes and forced himself to speak slowly. "This is Major Janson, covering door Gamma-8, right beside your loading bay 19. I've got a Quarren here insisting that I take on his supplies, instead of putting them into your warehouse where they belong. What would you suggest I do with him?"

"A Quarren -- Aruul Navik?"

"Yes!" Wes exclaimed, relieved that someone down here seemed to have a clue what was going on. "He's the most insufferable, rude excuse for a higher life form I've ever met." The constant chiming from the door was joined by loud banging, Navik's unfortunate datapad being used as an ineffectual battering-ram.

"You can say that again. We've had nothing but problems from him. We'll fix him this time, rest assured, and I don't care whose great-uncle is in charge of procurement for Sector XB-25. Old Qawati can find himself a new delivery-nerf."

"Huh?" Wes winced as the banging on the door echoed around the small room. "Um, look, I don't care so much whose uncle is in charge of what, could you just get someone to take care of this guy?"

"Yeah, well, we're understaffed across two of our docks tonight, and everything is backed up. Let me pull up the delivery schedule ... Navik's got eight trucks?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I'll tell you what, send two of them down to bay 19, and then you can let him offload the rest at your location. It should all fit in that long corridor, and will give us some time to --"

"What!" Wes exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat. "You mean I still have to deal with this bladder-fly? This isn't a loading bay, it's a security post!"

"It's the quickest way to get him off all our backs. Look, it's under my authorization. I'll lock down the door at the other end of your hall from here and notify Security of the change. Just let him dump his crates and send him on his way. And ignore the bluster. He's got an endless supply, but he's harmless."

"Yeah, I noticed," Wes muttered. "All right, I'll let him in. Janson out." He punched off the comm, leaned his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. "Sharps, you are gonna pay for this," he mumbled to himself. Scrubbing his face briefly in his palms, he keyed the outside speaker again. "All right, Navik, stuff it. Move back from the door and I'll let you in."

"And about time, you shoddy excuse for a land-grown burlik, stinking rotten fish-gut carcass of a bloated whale-shark..."

Wes rolled his eyes and keyed open the door. Navik charged inside, wildly waving his datapad, without once stopping for breath. "Diseased hump of sea-cow, I'll use your liver for nihil-bait, you --"

In one smooth motion, Wes rose to his feet, drew his sidearm, flicked off the safety, and aimed it squarely between Navik's eyes. The Quarren squeaked to a stop, eyes nearly crossing as they stared down the barrel of Wes's blaster. "Do I have your attention?" Wes gritted out between clenched teeth. Navik nodded, a quick, frightened jerk of his head. "Good. You will send the last two of your trucks back to bay Gamma-19. The rest you will unload here. Your droids can stack the crates in the hallway. And If I hear any more abuse, I will drill a new set of gills straight through the center of your Sith-rotten head. Do you understand?"

The Quarren nodded again. "Get to it," Wes ordered, lowering the blaster. Navik gibbered for a moment, then quickly waved the first of his droids forward. It glided smoothly across the floor, in stark contrast to its quaking master, and eased its load through the opening into the corridor. Navik looked at Wes, still wide-eyed and speechless. Wes reseated himself at the desk, crossed one leg over the other, propped both hands behind his head and smiled sweetly back.

_ Continued in Part 7..._


	7. Part 7

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 7**

Wes stood outside his open security door, watching droids trundle back and forth. It was nearly 0130, and the boxes from truck number four were being hauled in. The activity had broken the tedium for a while, but the sameness of it had quickly grown dull. Though it was a little entertaining to listen to Navik's half-articulated mutterings. Once outside, away from scary weapons and with droids to boss around, he had regained a little of his pompousness. But Wes was very amused to note that he did all of his directing from a distance.

The unloading process, however, was going very slowly. Instead of a well-organized loading dock, the endless crates were being shoved into a narrow corridor -- even more narrow when fully-stacked hover-pallets were lined up against the wall. The droids barely had room to turn around, and not remotely enough space to pass each other. So instead of an orderly rotation of droids coming in and going out, they kept getting in the way of each other, making the whole process drag interminably. Navik's efforts to speed things up (mostly consisting of shouting) were no help. One of the other drivers finally stepped in, setting up a rough relay where one droid pulled boxes off the transports and stacked them by the door, another picked them up and carried them part way down the hall, another took them further, and so on. It was a help, but not much of one. Navik continued to stomp back and forth, glowering. The other drivers and the droids ignored him.

The driver of the second truck, the one who had sorted the droids, wandered over to Wes's spot near the wall, finishing the end of a thin cigarra. Dropping it on the ground, he snuffed it out with a toe. "Slow night, at least until we showed up, huh?" he asked conversationally.

"You can say that again," Wes answered. "Is it always a circus with him around?" Wes asked, jerking a thumb in Navik's direction.

"Pretty much, yeah. He's got an 'in' with the boss, or else he would have been gone a long time ago. I get stuck making runs with him all too often." The driver shrugged eloquently, as if to say "What can you do?", and then extended a hand. "Brun MkAliver, by the way."

Wes shook the offered hand. "Wes Janson, nice to meet you."

"I haven't seen you around here before, you new on the base security detail?" MkAliver asked conversationally.

Wes's lips quirked upward into a wry grin. "You might say so. Actually I'm not usually assigned to Security, I'm really a pilot. I fly with Rogue Squadron," he added casually.

MkAliver burst out laughing. "Right, and I'm an aide to the Council. I just fly hovertrucks for fun in my spare time." He laughed again, clapping Wes on the shoulder. "That's a good one, pal."

"No, really, I'm actually --"

"What do you think you're doing, MkAliver? Get back to your truck, you're not supposed to be fraternizing." Navik strode up as if he owned the street, pushing his way between the two men.

Wes started to tell Navik to get lost, but MkAliver was both faster and far more forceful. "Mind your own business, Navik, there's nothing that says I can't talk to people. Just cause no one wants to deal with _you_, doesn't mean that --"

"_I_ am saying you can't," Navik interrupted. "Your responsibility is your truck, not fawning on self-important officers who --"

"Now that's about all I can take!" MkAliver exploded. "The truck don't seem to be going anywhere, does it? I'm unloaded, waiting around for your sorry excuse for a crew to get their gears moving so I can get home --"

"There's nothing wrong with these droids, they just need --"

"We shoulda had _twice_ the number for this haul, but you said that they'd just get in the way, when we could have had --"

"They _are_ getting in the way, as I said in the first place --"

"I woulda had them all dancing by now, and we'd be on the way home in --"

"WHOA!" Wes yelled, pushing between the two irate drivers. "Take it easy! Calm down, there's no need --"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I've had just about enough of this squiddy's high-handed attitude and his idiotic --"

"That is an outrageous insult! I insist that you apologize immediately!"

"You've insulted me more times than I can remember, and you've never apologized for anything! So you'll just have to eat that one, and like it!"

Wes again stepped between the two, forcefully pushing them apart. "Enough! Navik, over there, now! MkAliver, step back here, now, that's it," as he tried to lead the steaming driver to one side. Navik started to say something else, but Wes clapped a hand to his holster, and the Quarren quickly backed off.

"I'm sorry, but that fish-head is just about more than I can take," MkAliver said, slightly calmer.

"Trust me, I believe you. But we don't need any trouble here tonight, huh? How about taking a short walk, just down toward the loading docks and back."

Wes continued to guide the man away, but an uncertain voice stopped him. "Um... where's the officer on duty here tonight?"

He turned in surprise, to see a Twi'lek and a younger human standing several feet away, dressed in civilian clothes. The Twi'lek flashed a base ID at him, while supporting the young man, obviously the worse for a hard night on the town. He was, in fact, a shade far too close to the Twi'lek's natural gray-green skin.

Wes blinked at them. "You mean base staff actually use this door? Where's his ID?"

The Twi'lek handed over his own and the younger man's identification. "Not often. Only when we're trying to get around a hard-nosed captain who's warned Davad here twice already about coming in drunk and sick off his head. I'm trying to get him back to quarters quietly. What's all of this mess?" he asked, gesturing at the trucks and droids and boxes.

"Don't ask," Wes answered. "I'm afraid that you won't be able to get in for a while, the other end of the corridor is locked down until we're done unloading."

"Oh no," the Twi'lek moaned. "There's no way we'll get in the other door, Captain Marlin will be sure to catch us there -- isn't there any way we can get in here?"

"Ugh... I think I'm gonna be sick," the young man slurred. Wes shrugged, eyeing him distastefully.

"Not for probably another hour. Sorry, there's nothing I can do."

"Come on, you have to let us in, or we're both going to be in trouble. Look, I've got twenty credits in my pocket, they're all yours if you just open the door."

Wes shook his head. "Even if I wanted your credits, I still couldn't let you in. Major Frantloo's the one with the override code. And if you took this nerf out and let him get into this condition, I can't say that I feel too badly for you. Either wait here, or find another entrance."

Navik's curiosity had apparently overridden his fear enough to draw him back within eavesdropping range. Wes heard him muttering off to the side. "I knew it, he _would_ take a bribe. Holding out for more cash, probably. I saw it in him from the second --"

MkAliver must have heard the Quarren as well. "Now that's a dirty lie!" he yelled, charging around Wes and thrusting his face straight into Navik's. "I won't hear another word! If you don't apologize right now, I'm going to throw you down the nearest street-crossing!"

"Oh, and you rush to protect him! If you knew what I know about the base here, you wouldn't be so quick to --"

"I know ten times as much as you ever will, you sorry excuse for --"

"I'm gonna be sick... Ryn, gonna be..." the miserable young man groaned.

Wes hurriedly tried to turn the Twi'lek and his charge around. "If he's going to be sick, he doesn't need to do it here. Take him over there, let him sit against the building for a while. Just go!"

The Twi'lek clumsily hauled Davad around and got him moving. At almost the same second, Navik broke away from MkAliver, stomping toward his truck. He didn't see the two staggering crew members until he bumped into them. Davad stumbled, throwing out an unsteady arm and latching onto Navik for balance. The Quarren tried to free himself from the drunken man's grip as Davad clung and Ryn tried to keep him on his feet, the three of them scuffling awkwardly. Ryn started to apologize, but Davad interrupted by doubling over. "Ugh... gonna be..."

Without further ado, Davad's dire predictions came true. Ryn jumped back in time. Navik, to his misfortune, didn't.

_Continued in Part 8..._


	8. Part 8

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 8**

Rubbing tired, gritty eyes, Wes leaned against the wall beside his door. Yet again, a pallet-laden droid glided past him. The trips were thankfully getting shorter; this cargo was from the last transport, almost completely unloaded. After Navik's "misfortune" (Wes smirked to himself) the disgruntled Quarren had taken himself off to his truck, muttering. The two crew members had decided to brave their commanding officer's wrath and had tottered off to find another entrance. Which meant that the last hour had been blessedly, tediously quiet. At least the unloading gave him an excuse to stand outside in the free air, instead of being stuck inside his stuffy little bay staring at the walls. Or rather, boxes.

Brun MkAliver, the sensible driver who had assumed control when Navik disappeared, wandered back over to the door, extending a datapad. "We're almost done here, Major. If I can just get your signature here for --"

MkAliver was interrupted as a snarling whine split the calm night air. Growing quickly to a roar, the noise resolved itself into the engines of several large swoops, zooming up the avenue fronting the base at suicidal speeds. The souped-up speeders flashed past and then executed sloppy turns, coming back around at the line of hovertrucks.

"What the -- get down!" Wes shouted, shoving MkAliver to the ground as one of the riders produced a blaster and started shooting into the air, verdant green laser bolts stabbing upward into the overcast sky. In moments, several blasters opened up, some firing into the air, some taking potshots at the line of transports. Their riders whooped and yelled, raucous cries carrying faintly over the shuddering engine growl of the swoops.

Wes raced for the nearest gap between trucks, blaster in hand and fumbling for his comlink. He threw himself to the ground, landing hard on his stomach with a grunt. Tucking close against the closed loading door of one of the transports, he scanned the open boulevard and hit the comlink's transmit button. "Emergency, emergency, swoop gang attacking at Base Entrance Gamma-8, I repeat, swoop ga--"

He was abruptly cut off as one of the riders buzzed his position, flashing past barely two meters away. He sighted without thought and fired, burning paint from the swoop's tail end, then flung up his left arm to shield his face as hot thruster wash rolled over him.

Coughing and blinking dust from his eyes, he looked up just in time to catch the rider of an orange-and-red swoop pause to take better aim, fire at something, then aim and fire again. The sharp whine of his blaster bolts were immediately followed by the shattering of glass. Wes felt his guts clench in anger; the Sith-begotten womp-rat was shooting windows out of the trucks. Some of the drivers were probably taking shelter in those cabs.

Snapping his blaster up, Wes drew a bead and fired just as the rider goosed his engine. The bolt aimed for his chest instead clipped his shoulder. The jockey lurched in his seat, wobbling off course but accelerating away.

Wes started to track him, but ducked as a blaster bolt from another direction slammed the side of the transport sheltering him. Whipping his head around, he saw a humanoid on a poisonous green swoop skidding to a stop in the middle of the avenue. Raising a large automatic blaster pistol, the rider cut loose a short burst just as Wes locked onto him and fired. The humanoid's laser bolts dug into the ground just in front of the major's position, dazzling his eyes and kicking duracrete chips back into his face. Wes's first shot sparked off the swoop's handlebars; the second took the rider in the left side of his chest, sending him flying backwards off the end of his bike.

The other swoops milled in confusion for a second, their riders shouting unintelligible words at each other, and then boiled in toward the transports, weapons blazing. The air above Wes was instantly rent to shreds by a storm of flying light. Gritting his teeth, Wes pressed as close as he could to the hovertruck's rear door and kept shooting as fast as he could pull the firing stud, feeling the hissing passage of a laser bolt only centimeters above his shoulder, flinching from the sudden shower of breaking glass as they nailed the transport's window --

-- as suddenly his single blaster was joined by a wave of heavier fire from his left, the direction of the warehouses. The swoops all pulled around and shot off in the direction they had come from as three military speeders sped up the avenue in their wake, forward blaster cannons roaring. In seconds, the sound of engines was fading, echoing weirdly off the artificial canyon walls formed by Coruscant's towering buildings.

The beleaguered major, no longer pinned down, still held his position for several long seconds. He scanned the area one last time, blaster up and at the ready. Only the crumpled form of the humanoid rider he had shot down, the green swoop humming peacefully in the middle of the avenue, and the gnawing, anxious anger in the pit of his stomach remained to tell him that anything at all had happened.

_ Continued in Part 9..._


	9. Part 9

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 9**

Rolling away from the transport that had provided him with cover, Wes pushed up to his knees, and then regained his feet, grabbing one of the rear door handles to drag himself up. His legs shook, an effect of ebbing adrenaline. The roiling angry feeling that gripped him was also slow to dissipate. It was one thing to face death during a planned mission, when one knew the risks going in, but being ambushed was another story -- especially at a secure base on a peaceful planet, during an assignment that was supposed to be more or less a joke by an old friend. Well, the joke had long since stopped being funny. Wes took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, trying to regain control. He flicked his blaster's safety back on, but couldn't bring himself to holster it just yet.

Now that the shooting was over, other responsibilities came to the fore. Pushing away from the transport he leaned against, he took the few steps around to the door of the hovertruck on his other side, the one they had shot the window out of just before the speeder patrol appeared. He pulled open the door and was relieved to find no one inside. The truck itself was much the worse for wear, though, ugly blaster burns marring its side and front end. Wes shook his head, but that wasn't his problem now.

Looking around, he saw a few of the drivers hesitantly opening doors or looking out from windows of the transports at the far end of the line, the ones that had been farthest from the worst of the swoop damage. He hoped most of them had been over there, killing time while the trucks were unloaded. Brun MkAliver still sprawled on the ground where Wes had left him; only now was he lifting his head from the duracrete to look around. The major trotted over to him, offering a hand to help him up. "Are you all right, sir?"

The man climbed shakily to his feet, brushing at the front of his clothing. "Yeah, I think so. I heard of such things, shootouts in the lower levels, but I never woulda thought I'd be in the middle of one, y'know?" He laughed nervously, eyes darting around as if more swoops might drop out of the air onto their heads.

"I know. How about you go and check on your people, make sure everyone is safe? I've got to call this in." MkAliver nodded once, a quick jerk of his head. Wes clapped him on the shoulder, then headed inside to his security desk.

An alert tone was beeping insistently at his terminal. Wes keyed open a comm channel, responding to the summons. "Major Janson here. Situation under control, the swoopers are gone."

"Major Janson, Gamma Control. Understood. Colonel Heshen and a security team are on the way to secure the area. Are there any injuries at your location? Over."

"We're determining that now, I have the driver in charge checking on his people." Wes looked up at the sound of an airspeeder arriving outside, marked boldly with the base security insignia. "Looks like Colonel Heshen's team just arrived, stand by."

"We copy."

Wes jogged back out the door and headed for the speeder. Most of the personnel disgorging from the craft were dispersing around the area, taking up covering positions around the transports, talking to the drivers. "Colonel Heshen?" Wes called, unsure which of them was the officer in charge. "Colonel --" Rounding the end of the craft, he nearly walked into a man headed the other way. It was none other than the grouchy colonel who had reprimanded him earlier in the evening.

Stopping abruptly, Wes reflexively started to salute -- realizing just in time that he still gripped his blaster in his right hand. Colonel Heshen's scowl, the same that had been directed at him before, intensified. Quickly putting away his sidearm, Wes finished the salute, which was returned. "Major Janson. Is everyone here accounted for?" the senior officer curtly asked.

"I don't know yet, I asked one of the drivers to check on -- oh, here he is," he said as MkAliver walked back over to them, accompanied by one of the security guards. "MkAliver, are all your people safe?" Wes asked.

"Yeah, we're all fine. Navik was just about hiding under his seat, he was so --"

"Is the unloading nearly finished?" Colonel Heshen interrupted.

Startled, MkAliver turned his attention to the shorter man. "Yeah, we're almost done. Ten, twelve more pallets to go."

"Good. Please have your droids hurry, so that we can reclose this door. I'm afraid the transports will need to remain where they are until we finish investigating this unfortunate incident, but we will post guards and have someone see all of your drivers home safely. We will contact your employer in the morning about damages and compensation."

"Thank you, sir." MkAliver nodded, then looked to Wes. "Major Janson, a pleasure meeting you."

"The pleasure was mine, MkAliver," Wes responded, nodding to the driver. MkAliver walked away with the guard, and Wes turned his attention back to the colonel, who was standing with arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised. "Yes, sir?"

The colonel eyed him for a second longer, then abruptly turned away. "I have no time for your incompetency now," he said brusquely. "I'll deal with you later, Major."

"My ... what?" Wes was shocked speechless as the colonel strode away.

_Continued in Part 10..._


	10. Part 10

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 10**

Wes hung around aimlessly as the security team did their work, performing their duties with all the efficiency and alacrity he would expect with a commander like Heshen in charge. One of them took a brief statement from him of his part in the "incident." Then they told him to go back inside the security lobby, and ignored him.

Fidgeting just inside the door, the pilot watched as the drivers were all loaded into the security transport and taken away toward the warehouses, as the droids made their last few trips, simply shoving the remaining boxes into the nearest end of the hallway and retreating. There was a brief discussion between Colonel Heshen and one of his officers about what to do with them, and then the colonel stalked toward the lobby while the officer raised a comlink and started speaking.

Heshen strode through the door, addressing Wes without preamble. "So, Major Janson," he said, planting himself squarely in front of the junior officer, "Would you care to explain to me why you took it upon yourself to allow a small fleet of transports to unload cargo here, when your clearly assigned duty was to watch a _personnel_ entrance?"

The colonel's superior, sarcastic tone goaded Wes's temper. "I didn't invite them to stop here, sir. The driver in charge, Aruul Navik, took it upon himself to do that. Major Frantloo authorized the unloading. It was _not_ my idea, Colonel Heshen, believe me." Wes tried to keep his tone even, but some of his ire came out in the force of his words.

"Major Frantloo takes too much upon himself. He has no better idea than you do about how to handle these thugs. He has been fortunate enough so far not to be on duty during one of these attacks, but he should know better than to take such luck for granted." The colonel looked to the side, responding to a question from one of his officers. "Call in Aachet and Yer'el. Debrief at Control G6. I'll be there shortly."

Taken by surprise, Wes stood in silence as the implications of the colonel's words sunk in. "You mean to tell me that those mynock-droppings have done this before? And nobody _told_ me there were swoop gangs operating in the area?"

Colonel Heshen turned back to him with a growl. "Mind your language, Major, and don't be insolent. If you had followed protocol, you would have had no need to trouble yourself about swoopers in the area. Twice now they have been reckless enough to break past the outer checkpoints and make runs at the warehouses. We have increased security at those areas in order to protect waiting transports. Your ineptitude, Major Janson, and Major Frantloo's impatience put these drivers in danger here."

With an effort, Wes bit down on his fury, resisting the temptation to pick up the slight man and punt him back out his precious _personnel _entrance. "I beg your pardon, sir, but it was the swoop gang who put the drivers in danger. And if I may say so, an extra patrol of guards at this location would have helped to drive them off before they could shoot up the trucks."

Heshen cocked an eyebrow again. "You are forgetting about the speeder patrol, Major? I believe they were the ones who chased the swoop gang out." Sticking an accusatory finger in Wes's face, he pressed on, giving him no chance to respond. "Until you are apprised of the _entire_ security situation on this level, please don't assume that you understand my responsibilities better than I do. _I_ shifted the speeder unit assignments so that they could cover this door as well as the warehouse section. _My_ officers will secure the area and investigate what happened here. And now that this ill-advised unloading operation is finished, this door will be locked down, and it will _not_ be reopened again until morning, under _my_ authorization. Do my arrangements meet with your satisfaction, Major Janson?"

Wes returned the colonel's angry stare without flinching, but the man's clipped words and no-nonsense tone brooked no argument. "Yes, sir."

"Good." The colonel strode around Wes and stalked to the desk. The pilot drew a deep breath of the cool night air, trying to force calmness. He watched as the small cluster of droids lined up to board a larger transport, presumably to be ferried down to the warehouses -- and then the door abruptly whooshed down, blocking his view.

Wes turned to the desk, where the colonel was briskly keying commands into the terminal. He finished in a few moments and straightened. "The door is sealed, Major, and my people are on station outside. No more insistent delivery boys will be gaining entrance here tonight. Which is just as well for you, as it appears you have a lot of work to do." With an expression of grim, smug amusement, the colonel came out from behind the desk, turning his back on Wes and heading into the hallway.

_Huh?_ "Wait a minute, Colonel Heshen -- what do you mean, I have work to do? You've just locked down my post. No one can get in. What's left for me to do here?"

"What is _left_, Major?" The colonel turned halfway around to look back at Wes, his face showing mild surprise, but a definite glint of malicious humor resting in his eyes. "Why, you have not even begun." He gestured at the last few pallets of boxes, lined up haphazardly against the wall where the droids had dropped them.

"Not even ... sir, what --"

"If you knew something about protocols in the Supplies sector of the base, Major, you would know that no Supplies watch officer is allowed to leave his post until _all_ of the goods delivered under his period of duty have been stowed in the warehouses." He let this sink in for a moment, watching as Wes's eyes widened, his jaw dropping slightly as he absorbed the colonel's intention. "Since you have taken it upon yourself to carry out the duties of Supply as well as Security, you have also taken it upon yourself to make sure that these goods are moved into the warehouse." The man smiled thinly. "However, I must also inform you that all _Security _officers under my command are expected to leave their posts in the same condition in which they first arrived. You have until 0600 to clear this hallway, or I will have a formal reprimand placed on your record, with appropriate punishment duty forthcoming. I leave you to it, Major Janson." Nodding almost pleasantly, Colonel Heshen turned on his heel and walked away. Keying open the first door into the warehouse, he stepped through, leaving behind six trucks' worth of cafeteria supplies and one very flabbergasted pilot.

_Continued in Part 11..._


	11. Part 11

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 11**

Scratching the back of his neck, Wes stared down at the large crate. The boxes delivered from Qawati's Cafeteria Supplies were about a meter wide, over a meter long, and not quite as high as his waist. They weren't enormously heavy -- with some effort, he could slide them awkwardly across the floor. But there was no way he could get all of them into the warehouse. One or two he could probably manage, but not _all_ of them.

Wes turned his head to the side, looking again at the long, long row of pallets. It had taken four droids nearly three hours to get them in here. Droids with a full power charge, who didn't get tired or need breaks or food or sleep ... lovely, beautiful sleep ...

Sighing, Wes shook his head sharply in a futile attempt to regain alertness, and trudged back to his hated security post. Scanning the list of comm codes, he adjusted his comlink to the frequency for the watch officer in the warehouses and put through the call, wandering back up the hallway.

A jovial voice answered his comm summons. "Arpenau here, go ahead."

Wes hesitated in surprise. "This is Major Janson over at Gamma-8. I was calling for Major Frantloo, in charge of the warehouse section."

"The major went off duty at 0200. He's somewhere around here, trying to organize the last of his cargo so he can get back to quarters. This is Colonel Arpenau, watch officer for the next duty period. And _you're_ the officer who got shot up trying to deal with Aruul Navik and his crew," Arpenau finished with a chuckle.

Wes groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. "You know about that?" News apparently traveled very fast down here.

"I saw the security alert for Gamma-8. Major Frantloo briefed me about Navik's trucks when I came on duty, and I have a message from Colonel Heshen about some 'irresponsible pilot', to quote his words, at your post tonight. So yes, I've heard some things about you, Major." Wes could almost imagine the twinkle in the man's eye from the sound of his voice.

"Yes, sir. I was hoping to get some help in getting this cargo stowed, a couple of crewers or droids, whatever's available."

"You don't need to stow anything, son. Your cargo is better off where it is right now, and out of my way. We'll take care of it later today, after we get caught up over here."

"Not according to Colonel Heshen, it's not. If I don't get this stuff into the warehouse by morning, he's going to slap a reprimand on my record and hit me with punishment duty." Wes half-sat, half-leaned against one of the crates, crossing one arm over his chest and holding his comlink up in the other hand.

There was a pause from the other end of the connection. "Colonel Heshen said what?" Arpenau asked, his voice assuming a more serious tone.

"According to him, all _Supply_ officers have to have all of their deliveries handled before they go off duty, and all _Security_ officers have to leave their stations clear for the next officer." Wes's voice unconsciously took on some of Heshen's clipped, snotty tone as he talked. "So it's apparently now my responsibility to get all of this junk into the warehouse by 0600, or I'm in for it."

Colonel Arpenau paused again. "Well, it's true that Supply officers are responsible for all deliveries they accept during their period of duty, but you're not with Supply. That rule doesn't apply to you." Wes straightened, momentarily hoping that he was off the hook, but the feeling was short-lived. "Unfortunately you're under his command, so if he says you have to have the hallway cleared, I can't do anything about that. Even if _my_ supplies are better off sitting there for the time being, I can't order him otherwise."

Wes slumped back against the box again. "Is there anyone you can send over to help with this mess? I can't move six transports' worth of cargo by myself in three hours."

"That's another problem. We're running very far behind schedule tonight, and have to make some space before the morning deliveries start coming in. Every available hand is pulling cargo off the loading docks. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't send anyone over to you right now."

Wes stifled a sigh. "I understand, sir."

"What I _can_ send you, though, is a couple of manual hoverjacks. I don't have the people to run all of them tonight anyway, and you'll need them to lift those crates. Unless you're a Wookiee or a Trandoshan with a remarkably human-sounding voice."

Smiling in spite of himself, Wes answered, "No sir, I'm as human as I sound. Where do you want these crates stowed?"

"Where are you now, in the warehouse?"

Wes pushed off his box and walked the few steps to the closest warehouse entrance. "Now I am."

"There should be a couple of pretty empty shelving units close to your position, toward the back. Find one of them, and give me the number on the end of the unit."

Walking quickly up the broad row, Wes spotted an empty rack of shelves. "It looks like there's space on ... row RB-15," he reported, looking up at the sign attached to the end of the unit.

"That's fine, you start stacking your boxes on there. No promises, but as soon as I can cut anyone loose over here, I'll ship them over to you. Believe me, I'm on _your_ side in this one. Colonel Heshen is good at what he does, but he doesn't have a right to punish you for circumstances out of your control."

"Thank you, sir, I truly appreciate the help."

"And I appreciate _your_ help in moving the freight, Major. If you think six trucks' worth of crates is a lot, you should see what things look like over _here_ tonight," he added with another chuckle.

Wes smiled again. The humor in Colonel Arpenau's voice was infectious. He was obviously not one to let pushy delivery drivers or hectic schedules get to him. Far from being upset over the crazed state of the warehouses, it sounded like he was enjoying the challenge. "I think I'll stick with my boxes here, sir. Janson out."

Tucking his comlink away in a pocket, Wes headed back for his hallway to wait for the hoverjacks. It was good to know that, in a universe inhabited by the Naviks and Heshens, there were also Arpenaus willing to look on the bright side and lend a hand. With the promise of help on the way, and the reminder that things _could_ be worse, even shifting his endless line of crates didn't look quite so impossible.

_Continued in Part 12..._


	12. Part 12

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 12**

Okay, so maybe it wasn't impossible. But it was close.

Wes leaned on the handle of the hoverjack, starting to breathe heavily. A Supplies crewer had quickly arrived after his conversation with Colonel Arpenau, two of the promised jacks in tow. He had quickly demonstrated the simple controls, then jogged away toward the loading bays again, leaving Wes to organize his own freight as well as he could. Which turned out to be, not very well at all.

He found it was possible to load two jacks and drag them into the warehouse, pushing one awkwardly ahead and pulling the other along behind, but it was far too slow. He could handle one jack nearly at a run, but he still couldn't move fast enough to get all of the boxes moved in ... just under three hours, he found when he checked his chrono. Sithspawn.

Wes sighed heavily, running a hand back through his hair. Much as he hated to, there was nothing else for it. Time to start burning some favors. He pulled out his comlink, set it to a familiar frequency, and clipped it to his collar to keep his hands free. Thumbing the transmit button, he lined up the jack with the next pallet and waited for a voice to come through from the other end.

It took a while. "This had better be something dire," it slurred sleepily.

"Yeah Hobbie, it kind of is. Look, I'm sorry to wake you up, but I need a favor."

"That's nice. Good night." The transmission cut out.

Wes thumbed his comlink again, pulling the box out of line and pushing it toward the closest door. After another pause, Hobbie was back. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yeah, it's 0311," Wes replied without a hitch, glancing at his chrono for the time. "About that favor."

"You have no idea how much I don't care right now."

"I need you to get out of bed and come down to the warehouse section. Look up entrance Gamma-8."

Nothing but silence on the other end. Wes maneuvered the box through the door and headed up the row. "Hobbie?"

No answer. He had been hung up on again. Wes re-thumbed the button on his comlink, briskly pacing toward his assigned shelving unit.

Hobbie's voice came back, sounding a little more awake. "Tell me this is a bad dream."

"It's a bad dream. But you still need to come down to the warehouses. It's important."

"What have you gotten into now, Wes?"

Wes winced at the resigned accusation in his wingmate's voice; Hobbie knew him far too well. "It's kind of a long story."

"Start talking."

"There isn't time. Look -- do you remember Captain Lendrooloo from Karshen Base?" Wes asked, drifting to a stop.

There was a brief silence as Hobbie dredged up the memory. "Loonie Lenny? Yeah, I remember him."

"The officer in charge down here is just like him. But worse."

"_Worse_ than Lenny?" Hobbie interrupted, incredulous.

"Yeah. And he's gonna hit me with a reprimand, unless I get a bunch of cargo moved by morning." With the reminder that time was pressing, Wes shoved the crate back into motion, turning the corner and heading down the narrower row between shelves.

"Why are you moving cargo? You were manning a security post."

"That's part of the long story. Hobbie..." Wes sighed again, letting the crate come to a stop beside the handful of crates he'd already racked. "I'm really sorry to drag you in on this one," he continued, for once perfectly serious. "But I can't do this by myself."

There was another pause, a longer one, and then a quiet noise that might have been an answering sigh. "All right. You owe me _big_ this time."

"I know. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"You bet you will. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Hobbs, you're the best. Oh -- would you mind stopping by the cafeteria on the way down for some caf? I could really use it," he added, turning the jack to face the shelf.

"Sure, I'm gonna need some anyway," Hobbie's voice grumbled back at him.

The crate slid off onto the shelf; one more down, far too many left to go. "And while you're at it, see if they have any pastries? Something sweet."

"Yeah," Hobbie mumbled, plus something Wes couldn't make out and some rustling noises, probably his wingmate stumbling into whatever clothes were nearest to hand.

"Thanks. Oh -- and if they've got any Narunien orange figs --"

"Wes!" Hobbie snapped, loud and clear.

The recalcitrant pilot grinned, turning the jack around and starting on his way back out. "Well, if you'd rather have the purple figs, by all means. I'm not picky. See you in a few."

Hobbie growled something unintelligible and cut the transmission. Wes jogged back toward the corridor and the next box.

_Continued in Part 13..._


	13. Part 13

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 13**

Wes made another five trips into the warehouse after his conversation with Hobbie. Returning for the sixth, he caught sight of his wingman stomping down the hallway toward him, disheveled and even more dour than usual, followed by --

"Ooryl!" Wes exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Ooryl's mouth-parts opened in his version of a smile. "Gands do not need much sleep --"

"Unlike humans," Hobbie interrupted gruffly, setting his carry-out tray from the cafeteria down with a thump on top of the nearest crate.

"I was passing time in the lounge when Hobbie walked by. He asked if I would assist," Ooryl finished.

"Sooner we move your boxes, the sooner I can go back to bed," Hobbie grumbled, his voice still rough from sleep. "So this is them, huh?" Posting his hands on his hips, he looked up and down the hall, taking stock of the task at hand.

"Yeah." Wes turned to the Gand pilot. "Ooryl, thanks a million. I owe you, too."

"No, you owe me _two_," Hobbie rebuffed, holding up two fingers and then counting them off. "One for crawling out of bed to clean up your mess, and one for bringing along extra help. You owe him _one_ for coming along." Hobbie picked up one of the large cups of caf on the tray and slurped at it.

Ignoring his grousing friend for a second, Wes told Ooryl, "We're going to need another hoverjack to carry these things, I've only got two here. Think you can go scrounge one up?"

Ooryl nodded. "I will find what I can," he agreed in his high-pitched voice and walked off into the warehouse.

Wes turned back to Hobbie, who was leaning against a crate and yawning hugely. "I really am sorry to drag you out of bed. When did you get in last night?"

"It still _is_ night. And you don't want to remind me how little sleep I got. What happened to you, anyway?"

"Huh?"

Hobbie gestured with his cup of caf at Wes's uniform. "You're a mess. Like you've been rolling around on the floor. What happened?"

Wes looked down at himself. His uniform was covered in dust and grit, rumpled and smudged. "Oh. That was from the swoop gang. I didn't even notice."

"The what?" Wes glanced back up at Hobbie, whose eyebrows were raised, the cup of caf suspended halfway to his mouth.

"The swoop gang," Wes repeated, brushing at his uniform. "They shot up the stupid Quarren's transports while the boxes were being hauled in, cause Frantloo told me to let Navik in here but Colonel Heshen didn't tell me they were in the area, and I had to take cover under one of the trucks to hold them off. Until the speeder unit came and chased them out." Wes rambled to a stop, giving up on his uniform and looking back at Hobbie. The taller pilot had lowered the cup of caf, an incredulous expression on his face. "What?"

"Nothing's ever easy with you, is it?" Hobbie answered, bemused.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. You can tell me about it tomorrow. I don't think I'm awake enough to get it, and you're not awake enough to make sense." Hobbie sipped at his cup again, then set it down resolutely. "And if you need all of these moved by 0600, we've got our work cut out for us."

"Yeah," Wes agreed, zeroing in on the box Hobbie had brought with him. "Ooh, pastries."

Hobbie sighed, turning his attention to the hoverjack Wes had been using. "How does this thing work?"

Wes gestured with the half-eaten pastry in his hand. Powdery sugar dusted across the controls Hobbie was peering at. "Just line it up with the pallet and push that button," he mumbled through his mouthful of sweet dough.

Hobbie gave him a disgusted look, then shifted the jack to line up with the box at the end of the line. Wes resumed digging into the tray from the cafeteria, finding a generous handful each of orange, purple, _and_ red figs. He looked up at Hobbie and grinned. "Hey, Narunien figs. How'd you know?"

Not dignifying that with a response, Hobbie awkwardly turned the jack and pushed it toward the closest door, forcing Wes to hurriedly flatten himself against the row of crates to get out of the way. Coming even with the shorter pilot, Hobbie pinned him with a fierce look. "I didn't come down here to watch you stuff your face," he said pointedly.

"Okay, okay. Sorry," Wes said. Popping one of the figs in his mouth, he grabbed the other jack, quickly picked up a box and followed Hobbie toward the warehouse. "Thanks for bringing the food, though, I was really starting to..."

Wes's voice trailed off as he followed Hobbs through the door, catching sight of the same thing that had made his wing stop in surprise. Ooryl was gliding up the row toward them, not with a hoverjack, but perched at the controls of a medium-sized load lifter, big enough to carry a dozen or so of Wes's crates at a time. Drifting to a stop, he smiled at them both. "I didn't find another jack, but I hope that this will help instead?"

_Continued in Part 14... _


	14. Part 14

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 14**

Wes pushed his hoverjack through the warehouse, down the wide corridor that would eventually lead to his shelving unit, the one he had to fill. He didn't remember why at the moment, but he knew very clearly that he couldn't leave the warehouse until the shelf was filled.

His destination was nowhere in sight, however, the warehouse stretching out endlessly before him. An infinite number of identical racks and shelves stood in silent, imposing ranks on either side, watching him with disapproval. Wes felt a brief, queasy flash of panic. What if he couldn't find his shelf? What if he couldn't tell which one was his?

The warehouse was unnaturally quiet. Even his own feet made little sound, muffled by the enormity of the place, the sense of doomful fate that permeated the air, dogging his steps, peering down at him from the higher reaches.

Keep walking; one foot in front of the other, then again, then again. The air was dim and somehow hard to see through, as if the light were failing. On top of his crate was a half-full bag of figs, but he couldn't eat them yet. Hobbie wouldn't want him to. Hobbie said not to eat the figs ... Hobbie said...

"Hey, wake up." Wes jerked upright, staring around wide-eyed. Hobbie's hand dropped from his shoulder, an expression of grim amusement on his face. "No sleeping on the job, or we'll dock your pay."

Wes looked around, still disoriented. His hoverjack was pushed halfway through one of the warehouse doors, blocking it; he vaguely remembered leaning against the door-jamb, just to rest for a moment while Hobbie and Ooryl took the next load of crates over to be racked. Apparently he had fallen asleep on his feet, propped in the doorway.

"Ughf," Wes answered, rubbing his eyes and swiping a hand across his face. "Sorry." He started pushing his jack through the door and then hesitated, trying to remember if he had been coming in or going out. The jack was facing in, so he must be going in. But he didn't have a crate. So had he been backing out?

"Hey." Hobbie leaned down, peering into Wes's face and waving a hand in front of his nose. "Sure you're awake? Control to Janson, do you copy?"

Wes shook his head. Dregs of the dream lingered behind his eyes, making the real-life warehouse before him seem strange and unreal. "Nuh-uh. Are we done yet?" He finally decided that if he didn't have a crate, he must be headed out, and pulled his jack backwards out of the doorway.

"What do you think?" Hobbie gestured with one hand at the remaining crates in the corridor, dragging his own jack one-handed behind him through the door. "Does it look like we're done?"

"Ugh. 'Fraid not," Wes grunted, padding toward the next crate in line. He didn't see Hobbie pause for a second before following, shaking his head.

"I think you'd better take the next few trips with Ooryl. Keep moving so you'll stay awake," he suggested. Moving to the side, he waited for Wes to pull his box out of line and get it moving so he could do the same.

"Sure," Wes mumbled, heading past his wing and toward the door again. Behind him, he heard the now-familiar sounds of Hobbie's hoverjack slipping under a crate and lifting it off the floor. Hobbie's voice started following him down the hall.

"The faster you wake up, the sooner we'll be done, and you can get back to quarters and get some sleep. Trust me, you'll want to be awake tomorrow night. So we can tail Wedge around on his date with the Bothan he met last night at Ferinands."

"Hu-wuh ... wha -- what?" Wes spluttered, coming to a quick stop. "Wha-you ... he ... he _what?_" Spinning around to look at Hobbie in disbelief, Wes shook his head and blinked several times, forcing himself back to alertness. "Wedge has a _date?_ With a _Bothan?_ Wha'd I miss, when did this happen?"

"It didn't." Hobbie smirked. "I just made it up. I thought you'd wake up to hear _that_ piece of news."

Wes glared at Hobbie for a long second, before muttering one of his more foul Taanabian curses and turning around to shove his load back into motion. He heard Hobbie chuckle lightly behind him. "Gotcha, Wes. Consider that payback for dragging me out of bed at 0311."

"Next time I'll make it 0230," Wes growled over his shoulder.

"Hmm." There was a brief pause. "That'll get you Tycho in a husbanding pact with a whole covey of Flerinbings."

Wes looked back, grinning in spite of himself. "Promise?"

Hobbie's face lit up with a rare, brilliant, wickedly enthused smile in return. "Absolutely."

_Continued in Part 15..._


	15. Part 15

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 15**

"One more down," Wes commented as he tipped another crate onto the rack. "Only another, oh, six or seven or a hundred dozen to go." He hopped onto the empty load-lifter, dragging the hoverjack up behind him. Ooryl set the ungainly craft into motion for the round-trip return for the next set of boxes.

"Ooryl is afraid we will not finish in time," the Gand commented, his name-diminution revealing his perceived shame in letting down a fellow squadmate. "It is after 0530 now."

Wes leaned forward to clap Ooryl on the shoulder. "Not your fault the odds are stacked so badly against us. I'm still glad you came along down, we'd have never gotten so far without your help. Hobbie and I would still have twelve or fourteen or two hundred dozen boxes to ..." He trailed off, frowning at a passing lifter with a full load of cargo. Cargo that looked suspiciously like his own set of interminable boxes. "... load," he belatedly finished his thought.

Another several meters, and they passed another lifter, with another set of familiar boxes. The driver of this one waved cheerily and sped by. Wes frowned harder. "Wait a minute. We haven't seen more than three other people in the past couple of hours, and now two in less than a minute? What's going on?"

"There are more people ahead," Ooryl commented, pointing forward. Their lifter presently reached the end row of the warehouse, the one adjacent to Wes's corridor, and stopped. And both pilots stared at the transformation that had taken place.

Warehouse personnel of every type and description were pouring in and out of the open doors, loading up several lifters with crates. As they watched, another one was filled to capacity and set off, its driver smoothly wheeling it about and sailing up the corridor at a fast clip. Wes watched in wonder. "By the stars of..."

"There you are," a voice called from behind him. Wes and Ooryl both turned to see Hobbie and another individual entering the warehouse.

The tall, stocky man wore a faded set of uniform coveralls and a wide grin, thrusting out a hand toward Wes as he approached. "You must be Janson," he announced with satisfaction, his rich voice rolling in echoes up toward the ceiling.

Wes recognized that voice. "Colonel Arpenau?" he answered as he hopped off the lifter, eschewing a salute in favor of returning the man's handshake.

"That's the name they stamp on my pay chits," he answered cheerily, eyes twinkling. "Pleasure to meet you, and glad I got it right this time. I'm afraid I confused your friend Major Klivian here when I swept in with my crew and started talking to him as if we'd known each other all night," he chuckled. "And is this another pilot-to-the-rescue?" he asked, looking to Ooryl.

Wes quickly introduced the Gand pilot. "But what are you doing here? I thought you said the loading docks were swamped?" he continued.

"Oh, they _were_ swamped when you called," Arpenau answered. "I didn't want to make you any promises I couldn't meet. But the docks shaped up in good order, so when the early day shift started coming in, I pulled together a crew to come and see what we could do for you. Though you boys have all but finished the job on your own. That's a good piece of work," he declared appreciatively, nodding.

"Not good enough, though. We weren't going to make it by 0600 on our own. I can't thank you enough, sir," Wes said fervently.

The colonel waved away his thanks. "Not a problem. I don't like to criticize a fellow officer, but in my opinion you were placed in a very unfair position. I'm doing what I can to even things out."

Wes smiled. "Even so, if there's anything we can do to show our appreciation --"

"Don't even mention it," Arpenau interrupted, holding up a hand. "Not for a second. You boys put yourselves in harm's way for our sakes every time you go up in those fighters. It's the least we can do to help you out down here. And as a further thank-you, we've got fresh caf and the makings of a quick breakfast over at Control for the early crews, you're all welcome to come and grab a bite if you want to before you head back up to quarters." Off to the side, the last of Wes's boxes was being hauled onto lifters and carted off, the warehouse staff melting away as quickly and efficiently as they had arrived.

Wes watched them for a second, his eyes glinting speculatively. He turned back to the colonel. "As for me, I'm on duty for another few minutes, or I would take you up on your offer. How about you two go on, though," he suggested to Hobbie and Ooryl.

"I know that look. What are you thinking, Wes?" Hobbie asked suspiciously.

"What?" Wes said with feigned astonishment, holding up his hands. "I wasn't thinking anything."

Hobbie crossed his arms over his chest. "I crawled out of bed to come save your rear once today. I'm not doing it again. If you egg on this Colonel of yours, you're on your own," he said warningly.

"I'm not egging anyone on. I was just thinking, that Colonel Heshen doesn't really need to know that anyone else has been here, does he?"

Arpenau was the first to catch on, letting out a booming laugh. "I would say that what the good Colonel doesn't know, won't hurt him," he commented, still chuckling. "And I would also add, that I don't feel any particular need to tell him that the docks were cleared earlier than expected, or that my crews have been anywhere near this section of the warehouse." Wes grinned; even Hobbie slowly smiled. "Come on then, boys, we'll find you some caf and leave Janson here to finish up his shift." Arpenau strolled to Ooryl's appropriated load-lifter, settling himself at the controls.

"Hobbs, Ooryl, thanks again," Wes said as they turned to follow. "I still owe you both."

Hobbie smirked, walking backwards toward his ride. "Oh, trust me. We know." Hopping onto the lifter after Ooryl, he waved a cocky good-bye and was quickly whisked out of view, away toward the warehouse's central control area.

Wes stuck his hands in his pockets, whistling softly as he ambled out the nearest door and back toward his security desk. It had been a long shift, but the end was nearly in sight.

_Continued in Part 16..._


	16. Part 16

_The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author._

**Part 16**

Wes sat at his desk and fidgeted, watching the chrono count down. His interminable shift as a security officer was nearly over. Just a couple more minutes, and freedom was his. And considering who was in charge of security in this sector, he didn't doubt that his replacement would arrive precisely on schedule.

0558 ... 0558.30 ... Wes composed himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. 0558.55 ... 0559 ...

Just on time, he heard footsteps approaching down the long corridor. A quick grin tugged at his lips, but he quashed it. Time for the final act to begin.

As expected, the footsteps resolved into the figure of Colonel Heshen, followed by a junior security officer. Wes quickly rose, stood to attention, and saluted sharply.

The colonel returned the salute, scowling lightly, his expression one of puzzlement. After a long night, including at least one overt attack in his sector of responsibility, he looked even crustier than before. "Major Janson. What a surprise to find you here."

"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm afraid I don't understand. This is my post." Wes didn't relax his posture or his vocabulary, forming the very picture of a model Starfighter Command officer.

"I should say, to find you sitting here at leisure, rather than pushing boxes out of my corridor. If I may ask, where are the several transports' worth of cargo that I instructed you to move earlier this morning?"

"In the warehouse, sir. As ordered." Wes didn't quite meet the man's eyes, keeping his own gaze straight ahead, hiding his amused satisfaction over the colonel's growing confusion.

"In the warehouse? _All_ of them?"

"Yessir. Racked on shelving unit RB-15."

Colonel Heshen crossed his arms over his chest. "On 'shelving unit RB-15', you say. How very precise of you. You won't mind, of course, if I verify that for myself?"

"No, sir."

The colonel hesitated, regarding him suspiciously. "If you will pardon my inquiring, who instructed you to put the boxes on 'shelving unit RB-15'?" he asked, quoting Wes with the hint of a sneering tone in his voice.

With an effort, the pilot-turned-security-officer kept his face and posture still, though mentally he cringed. Heshen was still looking for an excuse to land him in trouble, and Wes didn't put it past him to make one up. "Colonel Arpenau, sir. I called Warehouse Control to ask them where to store the crates."

"I see." Colonel Heshen briskly pulled out his comlink and adjusted the frequency. "Colonel Arpenau, this is Colonel Heshen. Please respond."

A now-familiar voice came through from the other end. "Good morning, Colonel, Arpenau here. What can I do for you?"

"My officer over here at door Gamma-8, a Major Janson, says that he contacted you about a matter of some cargo earlier this morning. Can you confirm that he did?"

"Of course. The major called me about 0300, asking where he could rack one of the night's deliveries that had been shifted to his location. I asked him to find an empty spot to stow it over near his post, out of the way of the traffic from the docks."

"Indeed. And did Major Janson, by chance, ask for any additional help in moving the delivery?"

"At that point in time, Colonel, it wouldn't have mattered if he'd asked or not. We had about 40 transports backed up here. I needed every hand available, and then some."

"I see." Colonel Heshen glared at Wes for a long second. "Thank you, Colonel, I won't take up any more of your time."

"No trouble at all, Colonel. If I can ask, for the sake of our scheduling, how much of Qawati's delivery is left to move into the warehouse? We'll send someone over to take care of the rest later today."

The colonel's expression soured as though he had bit into an unripe limelon. "That won't be necessary. The entire delivery has been moved. The corridor is clear." Wes kept his face still, but inwardly cackled over the colonel's forced admission, sending a brief mental acknowledgement and thanks in Arpenau's direction.

"That's very impressive work, then. Please relay my thanks to Major Janson for going out of his way to help, that saves us a lot of trouble. Arpenau out."

Heshen replaced his comlink in its clip, scowling fiercely. "All right, Major, my curiosity is growing out of bounds. How did you do it?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Move six transports' worth of cargo the whole way to row RB, by yourself, in less than three hours!"

Wes knew it might be his final undoing, but he couldn't help himself. He just couldn't. "One box at a time, sir," he answered cheekily.

The colonel glowered menacingly, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by the chime of the door. Wes glanced at the monitor, which showed an officer standing outside beside a staff skimmer, handing his base ID to one of the security guards still on post there.

The colonel stepped around the end of the desk to see the monitor as well. The guard checked the ID, then handed it back and moved out of the way. Heshen gestured impatiently at the control board. "Go ahead and let him in."

Instead of complying, Wes stood away from the desk. "I beg your pardon, sir, but the door is still locked down, under your authorization."

Still glaring at Wes, Colonel Heshen himself moved to the terminal and tapped sharply at the keyboard. An agreeable tone sounded, and the door swept upward.

Eran "Sharps" Rivlantaar, a trimly-built man with black hair and a quick eye, strolled through the door, saluting in the general direction of Wes and the colonel. "Good morning, Colonel Heshen, what a pleasant surprise. Major Janson. Captain Barrlet," he added, nodding to the two junior officers.

The colonel transferred his scowl from Wes to the new arrival. "Major Rivlantaar. Why am I not surprised to find you behind this?"

Sharps' eyebrows flew up, his expression mildly astonished. "Behind what, sir? I'm just here to pick up an old friend, who I believe is coming off duty. Is there a problem, Colonel?"

Heshen looked at Wes for a long moment. The pilot met his gaze evenly, mentally crossing his fingers. This was it...

"No, Major Rivlantaar. Major Janson, you are relieved of duty. Captain Barrlet, take over." With a last disgusted glance at both Wes and Sharps, Colonel Heshen spun around and stalked away down the corridor.

Wes released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Throwing a hasty salute after the colonel, he came out from behind the desk, the impassive junior officer quietly taking his place. Following Sharps out the door, he took a deep breath of the early-morning air, throwing his arms out wide in a monumental stretch, a symbolic gesture of casting off all burdens. He was finally _free!_

Sharps casually hopped behind the skimmer's controls, waiting for Wes to take the other seat. He put the craft in motion, easing up the narrow lane between the wall and the line of battered hovertrucks still parked where they had been left. "So what'd you do to get the old buzzflak all riled up?" he asked without preamble, eyeing the transports curiously.

"Nothing. I think he just couldn't bear my obvious charm and youthful good looks, since he doesn't have any of either." Wes stretched again, trying to loosen the tension in his back and shoulders.

Sharps snorted. "Right, he found you irresistible. Did you reject his offer to take you out for a night you'd never forget?"

Wes grinned. "Something like that. Oh, and I let his security post get shot up by a pack of swoopies."

"Is that all? Sith, he ought to thank you for that, keeping his people on their toes. Let 'em earn their pay." The skimmer reached the end of the line and Sharps quickly spun it around the first transport, accelerating in the opposite direction. Wes grabbed at the door to keep from being tossed to the side. "Dried-up old piece of borrat dung," Sharps said dismissively. "Anyway, if you got shot at by swoopies, it sounds like you had a much more entertaining evening than I intended you to." He glanced at the trucks again, getting a better look at their blaster-scarred sides.

"Nah, nothing too exciting. Swoopies, obnoxious Quarren, drunken crewers, about a thousand crates' worth of cafeteria supplies, and our good friend Colonel Heshen. Nothing a Rogue can't handle with one hand behind his back." Sharps snorted again and swung onto another heading, this time tossing Wes into the door. "Sheesh, easy on the stick, there."

Sharps smiled toothily at him. "What, a Rogue afraid of some fast flying?"

"Only with nerf-herders or Logistics officers behind the controls."

Sharps laughed heartily, bringing the skimmer up into a higher lane of traffic. Wes looked around them curiously. "By the way, where are we headed? My bed is that way," he asked, pointing in the general direction he guessed the pilots' quarters were located. His words morphed into a jaw-cracking yawn.

"I thought I'd treat you to breakfast, since you were such a good sport about taking over the shift. Watch you fall asleep with your face in a plate of eggs and cheffu bacon."

"Sounds good," Wes mumbled, tucking his hands behind his head and letting his eyes drift closed.

"And after your quick nap, we can hit the targeting ranges and go for best two out of three. I've got a nice little maintenance post all lined up for you. Hope you like 'freshers, cause you'll be cleaning a lot of them." Sharps glanced over at Wes, grinning wickedly.

Wes half-opened his eyes to look at Sharps, then settled more comfortably in his seat, eyelids dropping shut again. "Bring it on," he answered complacently.

** The End **


End file.
